Now I seldom pass this spot without sparing a glance for it; first
because of the pool's still beauty, and secondly because many rabbits
infest the meadow below the coppice, and among them for two or three
years was a black fellow whom I took an idle delight in recognising.
(He is gone now, and his place knows him no more; yet I continue to
hope for sight of a black rabbit just there.) But this afternoon I
looked out with special interest because, happening to pass down the
line two days before, I had noted a gang of navvies at work on the
culvert; and among them, as they stood aside to let the train pass, I
had recognised my friend Joby Tucker, their ganger, and an excellent
fellow to boot.

Therefore my eyes were alert as we approached the curve that opens
the meadow into view, and--as I am a Christian man, living in the
twentieth century--I saw this Vision: I beheld beneath the shade of
the midmost oak eight men sitting stark naked, whereof one blew on a
flute, one played a concertina, and the rest beat their palms
together, marking the time; while before them, in couples on the
sward, my gang of navvies rotated in a clumsy waltz watched by a ring
of solemn ruminant kine!

I saw it. The whole scene, barring the concertina and the navvies'
clothes, might have been transformed straight from a Greek vase of
the best period. Here, in this green corner of rural England on a
workaday afternoon (a Wednesday, to be precise), in full sunlight, I
saw this company of the early gods sitting, naked and unabashed, and
piping, while twelve British navvies danced to their music. . . .
I saw it; and a derisive whistle from the engine told me that driver
and stoker saw it too. I was not dreaming, then. But what on